


Absolution

by magen1ta



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 10:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15839769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magen1ta/pseuds/magen1ta
Summary: "Yuri has been throwing himself into tricks like nobody else's blatant desire for self destruction, but he's still somehow surprised when he actually... misses. Hard."When Yuri finally gets his out from the competitive skating world, he grabs at it and returns to his dedushka's to recover. Little does he expect his dedushka to have found an "honorary grandson," the tall, dark and quiet Otabek Altin.





	1. one

 

Yuri has been throwing himself into tricks like nobody else's blatant desire for self destruction, but he's still somehow surprised when he actually... misses. Hard. For real. In front of twenty thousand spectators screaming as Yuri overrotates his quad Salchow and–

The pain strangles the breath right out of him. The knee, there's something wrong with the knee, and in between flashes of recognition (knee buckling, back going down hard, head cracking against ice) he thinks to himself:  _is it enough?_ Of course everyone's fallen on ice before and walked away with a bruise or some minor tear. Yuri is playing a dangerous game: it's all or nothing. He has to hurt himself past the point of no return. Anything less and he'll just be making it harder for himself because he'll have to compete on the injury. So he does a quick self inventory. His head is swimming and a dull throb resonates through it. The pain in his back is so sharp that Yuri doesn't think he could stand if he wanted to. And the knee, of course the knee, is wrecked. But it has to be wrecked enough that not even Orlov can say  _three weeks and some Advil, no excuses_. It has to be an unquestionable fact that it's unusable.

Vaguely Yuri is aware he's being lifted. He thinks he can hear Yuuri Katsuki's voice above it all, screaming,  _Yurioyurioyurio_ , poor guy is in a frenzy. And of course he imagines his dedushka. Watching on television as his grandson crashes, out of his mind with panic and concern, because it's clear it's  _bad_ , Yuri knows this through the haze of pain. 

 _Don't worry, Dedushka_ , Yuri thinks, letting his eyes settle closed, the darkness leeching at the edges of his consciousness.  _I'll be home soon_.

* 

 

When Nikolai brings back the boy Otabek is shocked. Obviously he knows who Yuri Plisetsky is. He's seen him on television, graceful and lithe, immune to the throes of gravity. Nikolai has always talked with a hint of pride about Yuri's hotheadedness and quick temper. The old man has always been sure that his "two grandsons" will meet. But surely neither of them could have even imagined it would be in these circumstances.

The boy is positively  _withered_.

"Beka, my boy," Nikolai says, somehow still beaming. Otabek is horrified. Yuri is emaciated, dark hollow rings of unsleep bruising beneath his eyes. Even with his crutch he walks unsteadily. "This is my grandson Yuri."

Yuri's eyes are completely blank. "Who is..."

"The boarder, Yuratchka. He's originally from a few towns away, but right now he's finishing up his residency at the hospital."

Yuri seems to deflate, like Otabek's presence is so heavy he can't bear the weight. He tries to shoulder past the other man, shoving him aside with his crutch, but ends up falling into him instead. It's clear that he's not used to the damage to his knee. Nikolai stares at him, gaze implacable.

"Move," he rasps.

"If I move you're going to fall," Otabek says, completely shaken by the sudden change in demeanor. A word comes to mind:  _feral_.  "You should still be in a wheelchair."

Yuri grunts. Straightens, with obvious effort. "I'm. Fine." He turns back to Nikolai, beseechingly. His anger is clearly wiped away by affection. Straddling the line between that emptiness and something impossibly gentle, Otabek watches as Yuri reaches out for his grandfather. Nikolai is at his side in a moment, giving Otabek an apologetic look –  _we'll talk later –_ as he trundles his grandson inside the small house. Otabek unloads Yuri's duffel from the car before following the two inside. There's a hushed, rapid conversation between them. 

"I just want to sleep, Dedushka, I'll eat pirozhki tomorrow, please." 

 

"It won't be fresh tomorrow," Nikolai says, sighing dramatically, trying to get a laugh or at least the hint of a smile out of his grandson. Yuri plays along, but the smile is so strained it has the opposite effect. The moment is so intimate and so awkward that Otabek instead turns away and hauls the duffel to Yuri's room, setting it on the bed before closing it gently and returning to his own small room. It's connected to Yuri's by a bathroom. To be honest, Otabek really isn't sure why Nikolai is renting out a room in the first place. With Yuri's earnings the two should have plenty of money, enough to even upgrade to a larger house. You wouldn't realize by looking at it that it's home to one of Russia's greatest skaters. Not that Otabek is complaining, Nikolai treats him like a second grandson, surprisingly invested in his studies and always wanting to hear about his day. 

Otabek misses his family, obviously. He's already missed the twins' birthday– Amina and Ali called him, and there was no mistaking the missing in their voices. He wants desperately to return to them and not be with the rabid animal that is Yuri Plisetsky. The boy practically tried to posture to him on  _crutches_ , for god's sake. Like some kind of ridiculous alpha male. But Nikolai had asked, explicitly, for this favor, a request that had seemed simple at the time–  _You'll help me make sure he doesn't mess up his body anymore, please, Beka, with that brilliant brain of yours?_

Right on cue, Yuri's door slams. (The walls are, predictably, rice-paper thin in the Plisetsky house.) A few blessed minutes of  _silence_. Then a garbled scream and a thud. 

Otabek is seriously worried that Yuri might have just passed out, so he wanders into the bathroom and peeks through the door on Yuri's side. The result isn't what he was expecting: the crutch lying on the ground, Yuri heaving desperately next to it in a thin white shirt and boxer briefs, sweats pooled beneath the bed behind him. Otabek slides the door open and sighs, crossing his arms. Yuri looks up, blonde hair hanging over his face. 

"I didn't fall," he snaps, already aggressive.

"Uh huh." Otabek continues to survey the situation. Mostly he's looking at Yuri's knee, though, bandaged with little streaks of kinesio tape running up his ankles for slight support. His toes are crusted with dried blood and bruised, and most of them are missing the nail. Some of them bend in awkward directions. 

"I was trying to get to the shower but then the crutch slipped and then I– fuck, are you going to help me or not?"

"The crutch slipped and then you reached down to get it?" 

"Yeah," Yuri says, unsuccessfully trying to hide his surprise at Otabek's observance. The older boy nods once and then walks over, kneeling down to Yuri's level and reaching to scoop him up bridal style. It's the most rational way to do it– no pressure on the knee, ability to control impact on the ribs and still keep the neck aligned so as not to disturb the minor concussion– but Yuri flinches away so hard Otabek thinks it probably dealt equal damage as the fall itself. His teal eyes are dilated, from pain or the fear reaction Otabek isn't sure.

"You wanted me to help you," Otabek points out. 

"Right." Yuri watches him, every nerve on edge. "Can you. Hand me my pants, then, if you're... going to."

Otabek passes him the gray sweats and Yuri carefully slides into them, maneuvering them up over his waist with some difficulty and wincing. He closes his eyes and makes a small motion.

"Don't even think about trying to stand by yourself, dumbass." Otabek doesn't wait this time, just uses the moment to snap him up into his arms. Immediately Yuri freezes, every muscle completely tensed. Otabek is careful not to touch him more than he has to but sets him down on the counter and helps him stand up. 

"Let me run the bath, you won't be able to bend down with those ribs." Otabek moves away.

"Shower," Yuri corrects him.

Otabek resists the urge to roll his eyes. "You seriously think you're not going to hurt yourself in the, oh I don't know, very slippery shower, when you can't walk across the  _dry_ surface of your room?" 

A pause. He turns around, gauging Yuri's reaction.

"What are you, my physical therapist?" Yuri retorts.

"That's what I'm doing my residency in, yes," Otabek says sharply. He doesn't add that the care was a request at Nikolai's behest. "Just use the god damn bath so you don't give your grandfather a heart attack when you fall in the shower."

 

"Well it doesn't matter," Yuri says, annoyed. 

"What?" At first Otabek thinks Yuri's giving him smack but the boy seems to genuinely not care if he gives himself another concussion when his knee buckles, because it will, because Yuri walks like some kind of fledgling chick or baby cow that doesn't know what legs are. He sympathizes: to have such immaculate control over your body as you fly through the air, and then... not. Like regenerating new limbs, or something.

"I said it doesn't matter right? Didn't you hear the big news? I don't skate anymore, so you don't have to baby me about this shit."

"You–" Otabek is so bemused he's at a loss for words. "You're going to ruin your body if you don't use your head."

"My head has a concussion." Yuri laughs at his own joke. It's the first actual grin Otabek has seen cross his face. Probably Nikolai would be  _very_ disappointed as to know the reason why, though. 

"You're  _insufferable_ ," Otabek grits out. "Are you even  _thinking?_ If you fuck this up you could lose your ability to run. To walk without aid. Let alone even consider about stepping into the rink again."

All the humor is gone from Yuri's expression in an instant, and Otabek thinks he's gotten through to him, but then: "I'm not. Considering it, I mean." Then, as if to prove a point, he walks towards the shower and twists it on, eyes gleaming in challenge.

"That's all well and good but are you going to compromise on walking too?" Otabek snaps.

He's not expecting the reaction he gets: Yuri's face twists in genuine confusion. Like he doesn't get it. Yuri is too smart to not know every in and out of his injury, every athlete knows their body intimately. So the other option can only be that Yuri has never actually thought about his wellbeing outside of the rink before. The thought gives Otabek a headache because now he can't just think of Yuri as some petty asshole, there's clearly something more going on here. The way he's so flippant about it, the way he hasn't even touched the duffel, which remains firmly zipped and relegated to the corner of the room. 

"Listen," he says, finally. "Just get in the god damn shower but don't do anything stupid. I'm going to stand outside and if you slip you yell, okay?"

"Youcan'tcomein," Yuri says all at once, the words falling out of his mouth, a sudden panic again, like when he flinched away. "Nonononono." 

"I said I'll be  _outside_."

Yuri takes a couple long, drawn breaths to calm his obvious surge of adrenaline, the glazed over look fading from his eyes as he turns to Otabek. "Then get the fuck out."

* 

The shower goes without incident. When Yuri steps out he is unbelievably tired and doesn't want Otabek, doesn't want those hawk eyes, roving over his body clinically, missing nothing, to see him, so he yells, "I'm out, motherfucker," and makes his way to his bed. All but collapses in it. 

 _That's all well and good,_ Otabek said, like he hadn't even cared whether Yuri could skate in the first place.  _That's all well and good_. Broken toes, bruises tying his ankles. They used to be symbols of pride, of his hard work, his sheer drive to push past his limits. Now they make him feel dirty. They make him think of that man's hands. Burning into his skin, a touch like matches. Even though Yuri fucking hates the guy, those words made him feel... clean. Then he scrubbed really hard in the shower and that helped too. His skin feels raw, hypersensitive. He burrows himself in the soft blankets, cocooning himself in fabric that smells like home.

Sleep hits him like a goddamn truck. 

He dreams of the rink. Not of the hands roaming, fondling, groping. But of the rink. Flying. The scrape of his blades against ice. In his dream he watches himself from the stands, like a ghost. The tight tight tight concentration in his head, his mind whittled down to the visceral. So he is only feeling. Only knowing. Falling into the familiar space that is muscle memory and joy and determination. He dreams of the sweet taste of exhilaration settling on his tongue like spun sugar. 

He dreams, and he dreams, and then the hands come around his throat, and he chokes on a scream. Wakes himself up like that: a stuttered heartbeat, panic racing through his veins. He's drenched in sweat but he can't take off his shirt by himself because his ribs hurt. He feels stupid and helpless. This wasn't what Yuri anticipated when he finally  _finally_ got his retirement. It's been so long since he experienced the world outside the rink that it's like he's a stumbling child. 

Then he thinks he would rather be sleeping instead of thinking, so he lets himself be swallowed by the tide of unconsciousness again, pulling him under. 

 

 


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek sees a tiny bit of his teenage self in every patient he works with. The fear of not being able to compete again, the hollow loss that eventually either turns to determination or grief. But Yuri is none of those things. Yuri is only blank, like falling snow, blurring over any errant marks, so there is only suffocation left in its wake.

Otabek asks all of his patients to put their unerring faith in him. They are usually in a state of devastation, because it takes a _big_ injury for athletes to break from their competition schedule to do physical therapy. Their fate hangs in the limbo and Otabek is supposed to be the one to steady them. Put them back on track using the bare minimum of relief. They stare at him, all hollow eyes and pursed lips, and the message is clear: _Whatever it takes_. Overmedicating, underhealing. Surgeries with absurdly low recovery times. A physical therapist for athletes that don’t compete at the elite level would think that it goes against the hippocratic oath or that the clinic isn’t doing their job right. But Otabek knows from experience– from his days dancing– that the best thing you can do for these athletes is loose them into the world again. Eventually they’ll run themselves out. But it’s only a span of a few years in which most competitive athletes are in their top shape, especially dancers, gymnasts, and figure skaters. Any sport with a performance element usually has their champions retiring by 25. So it’s not really _recovery_ that Otabek strives for. It’s a bang up job, a _survival until 25_. He’s a fixer upper. Otabek competed on a fractured back until he literally couldn’t, but by then he was in his twenties, had done his rounds with the Bolshoi Ballet and toured Europe and was okay with it. His doctors prescribed him enough Advil to shred his stomach lining. By the time he retired, his back would remain barely functional for the rest of his life. But the stakes were high and it only made sense for the consequences to match. The word people usually use in interviews is _sacrifice._ It doesn’t matter. Time is always against you. You get what you get.

He always recognizes this in his patients. Always recognizes the desperation, as if they’re grabbing at smoke, trails of victory, promises. He sees himself in each and every one of them. Except for Yuri. Yuri, who is so blank that Otabek thinks the boy might be completely empty. No desperation. No glee. Only silence. And he really doesn’t know how to work with that. It’s like talking to a doll. (A doll with bad knees, mind you.) 

Which is unfortunate, because come Monday, Otabek is reassigned to Yuri’s team. The idea is that since Otabek is boarding at the Plisetsky’s he can work through exercises with Yuri at home if need be. Yuri sits there quietly and lets the doctors move his knee aroundduring the appointment at the clinic. But at home he refuses to even pretend to do them, out of what looks like sheer disinterest. Also, unlike in the clinic, Yuri doesn’t let Otabek touch him at home, so he doesn’t know why he’s been relegated to the skater’s case to begin with since isn’t that supposed to be the whole point?

“Listen, do you want to be able to walk without a crutch or not?” Otabek snaps. If Yuri is going to act like a brat at home then so is Otabek. The other boy doesn’t even look fazed. 

“I’m not signed with the ISU anymore. I’m not obligated to do any of this shit.” You’d think those sharp words would sound so angry, but Yuri’s eyes are still blank. Not a lack of interest so much as simply a lack of _anything_ at all.

Otabek sighs. “I don’t know what you’re playing at but I don’t work for the ISU. I work for the clinic and I’m just trying to do my job, so stop giving me that shitty attitude when we both know you want to take it out on someone else.”

Yuri freezes. Otabek was just letting the words slip from his mouth, but now his breath catches in his throat, because there’s a flicker of emotion that passes Yuri’s face like summer lightning. 

“How much did they tell you?”  
A beat. “How much do you think they told me?” Otabek knows he’s playing a game here, a bluffing game, but he’s genuinely curious now. 

“Don’t start shit with me,” Yuri snarls. “I want to know how much you actually know what you’re talking about or else I swear to god I’ll… get a different doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor, and I didn’t even want to be assigned to your case in the first place,” Otabek points out calmly. “I already told you that I don’t care about getting you back into rink shape. You already made your call and I respect that. But I still need to do my job to get that knee usable, and you’re not letting me.” 

Yuri is still worked up, chest heaving, but his gaze snaps to Otabek’s eyes. There’s a beat before he opens his mouth to respond, words carefully chosen.

“You can do your job, or whatever the fuck you want, but you. You have to keep your eyes closed.” Yuri holds his breath, waits. 

“I– What?” Of course. Of course things would be this difficult, Otabek didn’t know why he was expecting his words to actually get some sense into the boy. He’s not trained enough to work a body solely by feel. He needs to see the expressions on his patient’s face and the way the body reacts to his ministrations. If he can’t see the results there’s no real way to know if he’s doing it right or not. Yuri is basically trusting him not to completely fuck up his knee. _Literal_ blind trust. Otabek thinks that there’s no way this isn’t more nervewracking than the original option. Athletes like Yuri are always hyper protective of their bodies, a telltale mechanism that they’re harboring old injuries that never healed. It’s easy to see the way they favor one side or another. It’s hard to relax them when they’re on the tableand they usually have their eyes glued to Otabek as he prods and bends at their limbs. Yuri’s brand of hyper protective, though, is really something else.

“Fine,” Otabek says finally, and he’s not sure why. He’s never sure what he’s doing or why he’s doing it when it comes to Yuri, he realizes. “Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He closes his eyes, hard. “I’m not ready to work with your knee yet. Don’t know it by touch. But I can… your shoulder.” He blows out a long breath. “I can do your shoulder.” 

“Shoulder,” Yuri repeats. 

They’re dancing around one another. Yuri, curiously terrified; Otabek, reluctant but malleable. Like moths to flame, Yuri set alight. 

The first touch is firm. Yuri almost can’t bear it, but he zeroes his eyes in on Otabek’s closed eyes. His long, thick eyelashes as he carefully presses into Yuri’s trapezius. He breathes shallowly. 

The first time he was watched, Yuri knew. Yuri knew the feeling of eyes. They were on him all the time: paparazzi, fans, coaches scouting him; teammates, rivals; he’d thrown himself onto the world arena, after all. But this was different. The gaze so intimate. Crawling on his skin as Yuri stripped off his shirt and hustled into a sweatshirt as quickly as he could. 

Eyes that wrecked him.

Touches, later. But Yuri’s brain knows better than to go there. So he just watches, every muscle tense except his trapezius under Otabek’s fingers. Carefully Otabek begins to work with the full length of his arm. Presses his palm to the flat of Yuri’s back so he will bend over. Yuri flinches hard the first time, but Otabek tries again with a patience that neither can understand. 

Yuri has had a torn labrum in his shoulder for months now. He fell a couple of times doing his riskiest tricks and kept pushing past the burn in the gym. The pain and misuse of it has been working its way down his back for the last few weeks, tension searing its way through his upper body. Otabek works the arm carefully, testing its range of motion, then pushing and holding as he pinches the back of Yuri’s back, as if he can manually push the two pieces of tissue back together. Yuri bites back every tiny noise of pain on instinct. Keeps his opened eyes on Otabek’s closed ones.

_It’s all a game_ , he says to himself. Victor’s words, from a long time ago, when Yuri was angry and stressed about transitioning coaches and playing politics. That came to mean something very different for him. When he began to realize the extent to which he was a pawn, a tool, his body disposable. 

Under Otabek’s ministrations, though, it doesn’t feel disposable. _He_ doesn’t feel dirty. The fingers work him apart and put him back together, always careful, hesitant but firm. The two work in complete silence: Yuri pliant, Otabek precise. Seconds pass in sharp increments that tear at Yuri’s throat. Jagged. He feels as if he might be teetering on a precipice, except he does not know what lies on either side of the balance. Otabek’s touch feels good and he hates it. Gentle, strong hands. They catch him even before he lets himself fall.

* * * 

Otabek isn’t stupid.

He watches the video of the accident, on repeat, slowed down, sped up. Sees the blank eyes he’s becoming all too familiar with. Yuri is so reckless, how did anybody not notice it sooner? It’s obvious to anyone who has a working knowledge of adrenaline: Yuri did this on purpose. Not necessarily in the moment, but there’s not a single ounce of self preservation in the move. He does some more research, vaguely reads through old news of Yuri switching coaches, his junior debut under a fresh face.

Honestly, he’s kind of pissed.

(It’s unfair. He shouldn’t feel this way, resentful. Like Yuri threw away the moment that everyone else would literally die to have: at the top of the world.)

So he shuts his computer and ventures out to do some non-Yuri work. On the balcony of the house, he stretches, lifting his leg against the wall and pressing it so it’s more than a 180 degree angle. His hip aches, and he switches to the other leg. It feels good. Otabek loves routine. He unrolls his yoga mat adoringly, feeling his palms fit against the grooved pattern on the fabric. Moves onto a warmup plank before he starts his sunrise salutation. It’s cheesy, he knows– physical therapists indulging in yoga– but it clears his mind completely. The positions make him feel both strong and graceful, a feeling he’s chased ever since he had to retire from dancing. 

When he’s run through the set three times, he opens his eyes to find Yuri watching him. Not blankly, for once: there’s a hint of curiosity and– maybe, just maybe–  _admiration_ in the other’s gaze. Still looks like a fucking ghost, though. 

“You want me to work on your shoulder again, or…?” Otabek asks awkwardly, rolling up his mat.

“I. Was going to ask you. If you wanted to help me cook dinner for Dedushka.” The sentence comes in short bursts.

This is rare: an invitation. Otabek quirks an eyebrow, feeling his earlier resentment fade. 

“Sure,” he says, eventually, when Yuri starts to flush with embarrassment. He’s missed it, cooking dinner for Amina and Ali. It wouldn’t hurt to do something nice for Nikolai either. Plus, there’s no way Yuri can navigate the kitchen on his own.

They’re finishing making the glaze for the veggies they’re about to sauté, alternating telling stories about the weirdest pre competition meals they’ve heard of athletes eating, when Otabek realizes he’s laughing. He’s actually _laughing_. Probably for the first time since he left behind his precious younger siblings. And of all people, it’s the hollow-faced _Yuri_ making him laugh. Their banter flows easily, and Yuri only flinches when he can’t see Otabek’s arms coming out of his periphery to help steady him or reach for a spice. It’s the nicest moment Otabek’s had in a while. Especially considering ninety percent of his interactions with Yuri thus far have involved the younger boy hyperventilating.

“Really,” Yuri says, a little grin on his face. “Phichit eats quinoa with Splenda the morning of. I’m telling you.”

“Mint leaves,” Otabek counters. “Camille Letsolovsky, the former principal ballerina of the FBC. Straight mint leaves. Nothing else until the shows were over. Her breath smelled great, though.”

A tiny giggle bubbles out of Yuri. Otabek is shocked at the sound, and the sudden silence clearly sends Yuri into self consciousness. 

“What, I finally one upped you?” Otabek asks, encouragingly, wanting to hear the sound again. Another part of him adds that if he can keep Yuri like this he might be able to actually do his job, what without the kid being a pain in the ass. 

“No,” Yuri says, quietly. “I’ll think of something.” He’s already withdrawing into himself, face blank. _Sigh_. Just when Otabek was finally getting through to him. Yuri flicks his gaze up, tentative, like he hasn’t completely receded yet. “I will.”

“Okay,” Otabek says. 

And it’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU for your support, everyone!


End file.
